


Let Our Scars Fall in Love

by Carukia



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Disfigurement, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-04
Updated: 2013-11-04
Packaged: 2017-12-31 12:51:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1031896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carukia/pseuds/Carukia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles puts his face on the wrong side of a knife, and now he thinks he's completely undesirable. No one wanted him before - why would anyone want him now? Peter means to tell him otherwise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let Our Scars Fall in Love

**Author's Note:**

> Semi-compliant to Season 3 canon, in that it doesn't include too many specific details but can be read assuming S03 events.
> 
> Rating is for safety, in terms of violence. Possible triggers include self-esteem issues, disfigurement, scarring, and street attacks.
> 
> A response to a prompt on the kinkmeme ([here](http://tnw-kinkmeme.livejournal.com/4905.html?thread=595241#t595241)).

Stiles is pretty convinced that he’s going to die young, and that it will happen when he gets in the way of something that wants to kill Derek Hale, or one of the other pack members. He’s pretty convinced it will happen because he can’t keep his mouth shut, that it will happen despite Scott’s best efforts, and that it will happen in a manner that will be _very_ difficult to explain to the coroner. It used to be that Stiles was convinced Peter would be the one to kill him. Then when Peter died, he had been absolutely certain it would be the kanima. Just before the sacrifices started, and Peter was back, Stiles had returned to assuming that, somehow, Peter would get to him.

Stiles doesn’t really have one particular cause of death hovering in the back of his mind anymore, because there are just too many damn possibilities. All he knows is that it will have to be listed as “supernatural causes” on the coroner’s report.

He’s gone on for so long worrying about monsters that he forgets about people.

 _Well_ , he thinks, as his back hits the concrete and pain shoots through the back of his head, _at least I got one part right. This is definitely because I ran my mouth._ The man is now above him, pinning Stiles’ arms to his legs with his own and holding his chest down with one hand. He’s wearing a black hoodie, but Stiles can still see his wild eyes, flickering under streetlights.

“You think you’re funny, huh?” the man yells.

“Well yeah, all my friends think I’m hilarious.” _Shut up shut up!_ The man isn’t laughing. His jaw is clenching, he’s brandishing a knife over Stiles’ face, and Stiles thinks he’s definitely missing half a box of crayons at least.

“Give me your fucking money, and I’ll let you go,” the man growls. And because Stiles still hasn’t learned his lesson, he frowns.

“Yep, I would do that, I would totally do that, but you’ve got me a little stuck, there, buddy.” _Oh god, he’s going to kill me._

The man _screeches_ , and the knife comes down and bites into Stiles’ cheek. By the time he notices the pain, the knife has moved to his chin and is stabbing down again. Stiles screams. There’s suddenly blood in his eyes, the whole left side of his face is on fire. His body bucks and somehow he gets his hands up to try to stop the knife, but all that does is give the blade a new target.

Vaguely, he can hear shouting over his own screams, and he feels the weight of his attacker pulled from him. He tries to clutch his face, to soothe the pain, but it just shoots more agony through him. By the time he hears sirens, his screams have dulled to sobs and moans, and then paramedics are standing over him. He tries to listen to them, he knows it’s important, but all he manages to do is moan once more before he passes out.

\--------------------------------------------------

Stiles wakes to the all-too-familiar sound of a heart monitor, the smell of detergent and sickness, and the too-bright hospital lights. He can’t open his left eye, but through his blurry right-side vision he can make out his dad’s uniform. He tries to speak, and barely manages a croak.

“Stiles?” his dad says. “Don’t worry, I’m here, kid.” A hand tightens gently on his right forearm, and it’s enough to relax Stiles into falling asleep again.

He wakes up better the next time. His right vision is still a little blurry, but he finds he can move his arms a little. The sheriff is still next to him, and the relief on his face when Stiles rasps out, “dad,” makes Stiles’ heart clench.

“Stiles, thank god. You’re alright, Stiles, you’re alright.”

Stiles tries to move his fingers, and can’t. He lifts his hands up to his face to see them swaddled in gauze. He tries to frown, but his mouth only curves down on his right side. “Dad, what’s...”

His dad talks. It’s overwhelming, hearing it all. Both of his hands are pretty cut up, but the doctors are apparently confident there won’t be much loss of sensation or movement, with a touch of physio and time. The real damage is to his face. The knife has barely missed his left eye, but parts of his nose, forehead and chin have been sliced away. His cheek, he hears, is hurt the worst. There are a lot of stitches, and he’s going to have quite the display of intense scars. Of course.

When his dad stops, Stiles is silent. Slowly, he nods, says, “Right,” and then sinks his head deeper into his pillows and closes his eye. His dad doesn’t speak again, not for a long time, but Stiles takes comfort from his presence there anyway.

After some time in the hospital, the gauze comes off his face, and Stiles looks at himself in the mirror. It’s bad. Gashes and stitching weave their way over his eyebrow, down his cheek and over to the lobe of his ear. They scrawl over to his nose and bite into his nostril, and back down to his chin. His bottom lip is sliced too, and the swelling and deep purple bruising just make such a weird picture that Stiles has to look away.

It’s really bad.

Scott finally comes to visit, Isaac in tow. Stiles tries to smile, but he’s practiced in front of the mirror and knows it’s a horrific sight. “How are you doing?” Scott asks, voice and eyes full of sympathy, gaze fixed on the biggest line of stitching across his cheek. Isaac’s face is stuck in that little surprised look he always gets, lips just slightly parted and eyes wide, tracking down Stiles’ face, following each and every line of stitching that by now, Stiles knows by heart.

“Oh, you know, I’m getting there,” Stiles answers lightly, and even though the other two hum and nod, he can tell their attention is on his face, not his words. A sharp sense of panic shoots through him, and Stiles suddenly wishes the gauze had stayed on. People had looked at him with pity when he wore the gauze, but it wasn’t like this.

The three boys talk for awhile, Stiles keenly aware of just how much Scott and Isaac stare, and it’s more a relief than anything else when morning visiting hours close and he’s finally left alone. He continues the regular ritual he’s developed, and walks to the hospital room’s bathroom to stare in the mirror. The motion of his eyes is familiar, now, and they trace each and every gash. And he just feels sad.

\--------------------------------------------------

It hits him when Lydia comes to visit with Allison. Her lipstick is perfect, her hair placed just so. She’s beautiful, he thinks, and even though he has always been keenly aware of it, this time it cuts as sharp as a new knife slice. Allison is only wearing a few dabs of concealer, and the slightest touch of eyeliner, but she too is beautiful. This is the first time that Stiles has felt ashamed to be in their presence.

They do what he’s come to expect; while he stares at their makeup, their beauty, they stare at his ugly red wounds and fill their voices with pity. Lydia is the worst to hear it from, Stiles realises, because she usually knows exactly how people need to be treated, but here she is doing exactly the same as the others.

When they leave, Stiles looks into the mirror for hours, until his dad arrives to distract him.

Scott is getting better. He still eyes off the lines on Stiles’ face when he first arrives, but he mostly tries to ignore him. He slips up every now and then, and it’s during one of these moments that Stiles studies him right back. He looks at Scott as though from an outsider’s perspective, that of someone who hasn’t been best friends with him for years. And Scott, in his own way, is also beautiful. The werewolf in him has made his skin perfect, has given him condition in all the right parts of his body. He moves now with confidence, with grace, and his “better Scott McCall program” has helped his speech.

Stiles thinks hard about this when he next stares at his wounds, slowly, slowly closing tightly.

\--------------------------------------------------

Stiles gets his stitches removed on a windy Monday afternoon just before 2. His dad is there with a reassuring smile and hand squeeze, but when Stiles looks into the mirror later that night it feels worse. At least with the stitches in, people could see he was healing from something. Now, he just looks broken.

The hospital has arranged a counsellor, so Stiles can sit and listen to someone tell him that he’s a survivor, and that he’ll get better, and that this is no reason to fear going outside alone. Stiles nods and agrees and doesn’t tell them that he has no problem with going outside, because he’s come close to death a few times just because of the company he keeps. He doesn’t tell them that the problem is that he has only beautiful friends, and while he’d had no fantasies about the way he’d looked before, now he looks like one of the monsters he always has to fight. If no one had wanted him before, who would ever want him again?

\--------------------------------------------------

Derek and Cora are the worst of them all. They come to visit in the dead of night when Stiles has been released. They’ve grown up as werewolves, and have always been beautiful. They don’t know anything different.

Derek keeps apologising. “I should have been there,” he says, and Stiles surprises himself with a snort.

“What? Don’t be stupid.”

“You’re pack, Stiles, and I should have been protecting you.”

“I was walking home, Derek, you can’t hover over us all the time.”

“But I could have stopped it,” Derek insists, and then gestures over Stiles’ face. “I could have stopped this, it’s awful.”

Stiles knows what Derek means, but it still stuns him to silence. He looks down and away. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Anyway, I should really get to sleep...” Cora, at least, realises something has gone wrong, and she pulls Derek away and out the window, leaving Stiles mercifully alone. He goes to his mirror, and watches himself dance his fingers over his developing scars. “Awful.”

\--------------------------------------------------

Stiles returns to school just as the scars finish forming. He’s not like Lydia, who is used to being the focus of everyone’s attention. He’s used to being ignored, blending into the crowd, so when he walks through the doors on that Wednesday morning, and everyone literally stops to stare, Stiles is very close to simply turning and leaving again. Fortunately, Scott is there to clap a hand on his back and walk with him, but it doesn’t stop Stiles from hitching his hood up to try and cover his face.

He eats lunch with all his friends. Even Danny and Ethan come to sit with them, and Stiles almost reaches breaking point. He’s this awful dark blot in a circle of beautiful light, and it’s harder and harder to sit there trying to curl up inside himself.

The day is so draining that when Stiles finally gets home, all he wants is to crawl into bed and never come out. The absolute last thing he wants is to find Peter sitting in his desk chair, feet up on the bed, flicking through a copy of Stiles’ last book report.

He can’t see Peter right now, he just can’t. If all his friends are beautiful, at least they have other flaws. Sure, Peter has tried to kill them all more than once, but otherwise, Stiles secretly thinks he’s perfect. He’s stunning to look at, has an intelligence and wit as sharp as a knife, is ridiculously charming, and moves with such a casual grace that he puts even the other werewolves to shame. He is perfect, and Stiles can’t be around perfection; not now, and not ever again.

“Why are you here?” he asks, sullen.

Peter puts down the report. “Well, it’s not for high quality reading material.”

“Go to hell,” Stiles mutters, but there’s no real heat in it. Peter simply snorts, and drops his feet off the bed, leaning forward. Stiles heaves a sigh and shoves his hands into his pockets. “Look, Peter, you know normally I’m all for telling you to shove it, but it hasn’t been a good day and if you could either tell me what you want, or just go, that would be super.”

Peter rests his elbows on his knees and temples his fingers. “I’m here to look at you, actually.”

Stiles just blinks. “Sorry, say again?”

The werewolf stands up. “Your face. I’m here to look at it.”

“That’s...very direct of you. Super sensitive, too, Peter, like, wow.” Stiles takes a step back when Peter moves towards him.

“Sensitive isn’t my thing, Stiles, you know that.” He stops right in front of Stiles. “Let me see.” And Stiles doesn’t really know why, but he doesn’t even resist when Peter reaches out to gently lower the hoodie that Stiles has been hiding behind all day. Peter blinks, and gently traces the scars with his thumb.

That’s when Peter reacts completely differently to everyone else. He smiles.

Stiles is taken aback, and pulls away. “Yeah, that’s great, Peter. This is real enjoyable, you know.”

“I like them,” Peter murmurs. Stiles snorts.

“Of course you do.”

“You don’t. Why?”

“Are you serious?” Stiles asks, pushing past the werewolf to go sit on the bed, hands brushing through his hair. “Of course you don’t get it.” Peter frowns, but Stiles just lets himself go. “I mean, it was hard enough for me around you guys anyway. You’re all so goddamn attractive, and I’m just not. I never was. But you werewolves, particularly... Well, look at _you_. _You’re_ goddamn _perfect_.” Dimly, Stiles recognises Peter smile just a touch, but he’s on a roll now, and isn’t stopping for anything.

“It was hard enough for me to just be not attractive. And now I look like _this_ , and everyone stares at me. You know I made a kid cry at the supermarket? Did you know that? I’ve spent the entire day buried in my hoodie because everyone in class kept _staring and staring_. And even my friends, Scott and Lydia and _everyone_ , they all just look at me. I didn’t _want_ to be old and scarred and alone, Peter, but I’m going to be. So no, no, I don’t like these _fucking scars._ And I don’t expect _you_ , who is perfect, to understand.”

There’s silence for a moment, besides Stiles’ end-of-rant panting. Then Peter rolls his eyes and walks forward to sit on Stiles’ left.

“Don’t be so melodramatic.” Stiles gapes.

“I’m not--”

“You are. And it’s frankly hurtful.” He taps the right side of his own face. “I’ve got scars too, you recall.”

Stiles falls silent for all of two seconds, suddenly guilty as hell. “You got rid of yours. And they made you crazy. Not exactly reassuring.” Peter huffs a laugh.

“Here. You think I am perfect.” Stiles blushes bright red. Of course that’s what Peter picks out. “Well, I happen to think you are quite lovely, yourself.”

“Don’t patronise me.”

“I don’t patronise.”

“But you are a lying liar who lies.”

“I do. But I’m not.” Peter carefully meets his eyes. “You fascinate me. You are simply human, but you are as strong and as courageous as every one of us werewolves. You are not a trained hunter, but you keep stride with the Argents as though you were born one. You keep verbal pace with my own more-than-impressive intellect and wit,” and here Stiles honest to god _laughs_ , “and are not afraid to stand before me, _me_ , and tell me exactly what you think. To put it in your eloquent terms, you are more than happy to, uh, call me out on my shit.”

Stiles laughs again, and looks down to his knees. “I do. I do that.”

Peter smiles some more. “I might even go so far as to call _you_ perfect, Stiles. I made Scott, but _you_ are my favourite, and you always have been.” He takes Stiles’ chin gently into his hand, to turn Stiles’ face towards him. His thumb strokes along scars again. “And these don’t change that.”

Stiles can feel tears welling up. “But they--”

“Stiles. These scars are inconsequential. They do not make you any less loveable.” And here, Peter leans in and very lightly, lighter than Stiles would have imagined possible from him, very lightly kisses a tear off his scars. “Or any less loved,” Peter murmurs, before standing and slipping out the window.

Stiles brushes the tears from his cheeks and sits in silence for awhile, before he returns to the mirror, as he always does. He stares at himself for what feels like hours, and brushes his fingertips down each and every scar. And finally, he smiles, and whispers to himself, “no less loveable, and no less loved.” And the amazing thing is that he believes it.

\--------------------------------------------------

Stiles is smiling when he goes to school the next day, hood down and hands behind his head as he laughs at a truly terrible joke Scott tells. The students stare again, at first, but as the day goes on and Stiles pushes it from his mind, they start going back to ignoring him.

As he falls back into his rhythm – school and terrible homework answers and reading about the newest monster threat – he also falls back into the crowd, exactly as he used to be.

And when he returns home each night, Peter is there, waiting. And every night, Peter lightly kisses his scars and whispers, “still loved,” and Stiles is happy.


End file.
